


God Plum Orchard

by punch0ut



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark City (1998) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Detective Noir, F/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Murder Mystery, Temporary Amnesia, Time Shenanigans, you can make a challenge of spotting them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28923960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punch0ut/pseuds/punch0ut
Summary: Uzumaki Naruto wakes up in a filthy bathroom in a hotel room he doesn't remember booking next to a woman he doesn't remember killing.Uzumaki Sakura's wedding ring shines like it's new and chafes even after four years; she's been waiting for her husband to come home for a week.Uchiha Sasuke has enough on his plate playing mediator for his family, and now he's the new lead detective for that ongoing serial murder case? How does anybody expect him to get anything done?
Relationships: Haruno Sakura & Uchiha Sasuke, Haruno Sakura & Uzumaki Naruto, Haruno Sakura/Uzumaki Naruto, Hatake Kakashi & Nohara Rin & Uchiha Obito, Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	God Plum Orchard

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty much a straight fusion/rewrite/re-skin of the 1998 Alex Proyas movie onto _Naruto_ because I've always loved the former and I've rediscovered my love for the latter.

It is 12 o'clock.

* * *

The bathroom is lit by a single exposed bulb on a wire, swaying gently. The man staggers upright, tepid bathwater sloshing over the brim. The bathtub is filthy: yellowed stains and discoloration from years of use form a tangible patchwork film under his palms.

There's a great echoing ruckus as he trips out of the tub, and then the small room is silent again, save for the buzzing of the light.

He doesn't feel clean, despite clearly having just taken a bath. The walls are no help: they feel grimy under his hands, weird little grains of dirt chafing against his skin. He pushes off the walls, stumbles in front of the cracked and dirty mirror. He has blond hair and blue eyes and a spot of blood on his forehead, but no wound.

He wipes it away.

He fumbles for a memory, any memory. How did he come to be in this place? Where is 'this place'? Who is 'he'?

There's a set of clothes in the opposite corner, laid out on a stool. No initials are sown in their lining, and each piece looks, feels, and smells brand new. The blond man becomes distinctly aware of his shoeless-ness— the bathroom floor is as grimy as its walls, and he could be gathering gunk in between his toes.

He dresses, for there's nothing else to do.

Then he goes through the door.

The hotel room that greets him is every bit as third-rate as its bathroom implied. It's dank, and dark, and smells funny, but at least the housekeeper vacuums the carpet, so that as the man strides towards the wardrobe, he successfully dries his feet.

The wardrobe is empty, and the man experiences a singular moment of crushing defeat, until he notices the battered suitcase and the overcoat beside it, in a haphazard heap at the bottom. They had been a little hard to spot, since the only source of light he had was the weak light from the bathroom; it's dark out.

He puts on the coat. Its pockets hold only an unmarked set of keys; unhelpful.

He heaves the suitcase onto the table. The table lamp is barely more than a nightlight, but it'll do.

Initials emblazoned on the suitcase reads _U. N._ in gold lettering, which could stand for his name or his company's name or the hotel's name (unlikely, given the wear and tear) or the name of an entirely unaffiliated organization. But the clothes inside are his size, and although the style was a bit dull, he supposed if he was an office worker, these would be the clothes he'd wear. A good case for the suitcase being his.

There’s a set of shoes, its soles unblemished. Perplexed, the man nevertheless puts them on. 

He digs around in the suitcase, unsure what he’s looking for, and fishes out a postcard. It reads: _Greetings from Eddy Beach!_ There's a sparkling ocean under a bright blue sky. It's the most color he's ever seen.

Something clicks into place in his head— a brilliant beach, its rock pools a rainbow of color and life; a sun-drenched porch, the wooden planks warm and brown; is this his childhood?

Metallic clanging jars him out of the recollection: the phone, an old and battered rotary model, is ringing.

Who could be calling?

He picks up. Someone starts to talk, immediately.

"I know you're confused and frightened, but I can help you. Listen to me—"

"Who is this?"

"I'm a doctor. Now listen carefully: there was an experiment but something went wrong and your memory was erased. There are—"

"Excuse me, what?"

"Just _listen_." The voice is male, but rushed and muffled, and not just from the bad connection. "The experiment failed. Someone's coming after you, maybe several someones, I don't know who they sent. You need to leave, now—"

Behind him is the bathroom. The room only has one window, and it's probably wedged shut. There's another door across the room, but—

The bedside lamp is lit but overturned. The bed covers are rumpled and unmade. From where he's standing, the man can see a pair of pale, white legs in the corner between the bed and the wall. They are unclothed.

The receiver is dropped and forgotten. Tinnily, the muffled voice continues to speak. "Hello? Are you there? You have to—" but he goes unheard, and a second later the line goes dead.

The man steps forward as though entranced.

There is a dead woman on the floor. An artfully spilled quilt preserves her modesty, but that is all that's bearable about her. Bloody spirals are carved into her skin, their color now rust-iron brown, rivulets of them spread across her skin in a grotesque demonstration.

The curtains billow from a harsh, hot breeze, presumably some form of industrial exhaust, and the bedside lamp makes one last effort to topple to the floor. All it manages is to illuminate an incriminating dagger, half hidden under the bed like someone kicked it there, the curved tip still bloody. The image and its implication hits the man the same time as the iron stench of blood, and it's like someone lit a fire under his skin.

He grabs the suitcase, slams it shut, and throws himself at the door. There's a second or two of heart-stopping terror when he fails to get the lock to release or the knob to turn and he imagines a knife raised above his back, ready to plunge and twist, but with a great big rattle and a lot of adrenaline, he's through the door and into the darkened, lamp-lit hallway of the shoddy hotel.

The air in the hallway isn't much better than it was in the room, but the physical space allows him some room to breathe and some room to think— _someone's coming after me_.

To the right, an occupied lift, shuddering as it drew to a stop. To the left, stairs. During the short span of his hesitation, the lift had chimed its arrival and the grille begins the death-rattle of opening, and he catches sight of three figures shrouded in black. _Someone's coming after me_.

He flees for the stairs.

***

The lobby is marginally brighter, but only just. Though its lamps also suffer the crippling inability to light any more than a handspan away from itself, there are at least a more of them. The clock declares it midnight on the dot, which explains why the lobby is so quiet.

Or...does it?

The receptionist, a balding man of at least fifty, is dozing in his post, propped up by a hand on his chin. So is the woman inside the phone box, who seems to have fallen asleep halfway through dialing. So is the old lady on the couch, her bejewelled hands gripping the evening newspaper but her head resting on the back of the couch cushion.

Cautiously, the man opens the phone box, which is incongruously brilliantly lit, and is not at all prepared when the dialer collapses in a boneless heap on the floor; she'd been half-leaning against the door. She... doesn't wake.

The man backs away, spooked. Making his strides as long as quietly possible, he makes for the revolving door—

The clock strikes twelve.

"Hey, Mr. Uzumaki? The Automat called, said you left your wallet there?" The man at the register stretches as though he wants to yawn. His voice is sleep-slow, but he doesn't seem to notice. "You'd better go retrieve it fast, since you only paid for three weeks, and they was up ten minutes ago."

Mr. Uzumaki blinks. "I've been here three weeks?" His own voice is hoarse from disuse and nerves. Someone uses the revolving doors, letting in a cold draft of the evening air.

"It's all right here in the ledger, Mr. Uzumaki," says the man at the register, reaching below the polished marble counter to retrieve a large book. He opens it and points without looking. "Day, and date." The finger lands unerringly on the right entry.

_N. Uzumaki_

_5/2305 Oak Avenue_

_East City_

And his cell phone number in the next column. And his room number: _614_. Mr. N. Uzumaki recognizes none of it, save the familiarity of the initials from his suitcase. It doesn't feel right, missing the first half.

"We make our books like we make our beds, all neat and tidy," says the receptionist, proud and proud of being proud.

"I'll- I'll take care of it when I get back," says Mr. Uzumaki, his mind spinning. A wallet. That'll contain identification, and maybe he can finally find out what the _N._ stands for. Among other things. "Can I leave the suitcase here as collateral?"

But where's the Automat?

"You'd better," says the receptionist, and when Mr. Uzumaki begins walking away, he raises his voice, "Only thing that makes you a guest here, boy, is cash on the barrelhead!"

It sounds vaguely ominous, so Mr. N. Uzumaki hurries it up and pretends not to hear the phone ringing all the way out of the building.

***

Teuchi has worked the register and the ledger for as long as he can remember. He knows the hotel's layout like the back of his hand and he'd seen all sorts — _all sorts_ — come through. That Mr. Uzumaki had been decent enough to leave behind his belongings, but Teuchi knew from first hand experience how much holding power's in the clothes off somebody's back.

None, is how much.

So he mutters about ingracious youths and the cold weather and his bad knee all the way up to the sixth floor, key in hand, fully intending to turn out Mr. N. Uzumaki's room — never did get the boy's name, and when you're Teuchi's age with a bald spot his size, everybody becomes _boy_ to you — three weeks is three weeks, no days off for good behaviour.

Key in slot, jiggle the knob (those pins aren't aligned), gotta hitch up the whole door a little, this one's sagging on its hinges; he'll have to air the room first, then the sheets, then the carpets—

A gloved hand grabs his face and swings him across the threshold, pinning him against a wall.

Two shadows resolve into men, cloaked in dark furs but pale as ghosts. The one holding him is built like an ox, wide shoulders almost bursting the seams of his trench coat, the high collar straining. His eyes are as pale as his skin, filmed over like a bad case of cataracts, and in the middle of his wide bull-like brow is a black diamond.

Teuchi tries to speak, to move. The hand pushes him further back into the wall. Teuchi is only able to drag in wheezing breathes. He can forget about speaking.

A second stranger is standing in the bathroom, the fluorescent light glancing off his snow-white hair like a sun glare. The sun... when was the last time Teuchi saw the sun? The pale stranger in the bathroom bends to pick up something in the corner with a gloved hand, his face twisted into a disgusted grimace. He's holding a syringe. He picks his way out of the bathroom, hissing in distaste.

Sudden movement around the first stranger has Teuchi flounder in the stranger's hold like a landed fish. A child emerges from the giant's side, barely the height of the stranger's waist, but those ruined eyes ... those are the eyes of no child Teuchi's ever seen. The child, too, has a black diamond on its brow.

"Uzumaki..." says the not-child, and it almost sounds as though it possessed two sets of vocal folds: its voice is doubled by an echo of something deeper, something Teuchi's mind shies away from acknowledging. "Where is he?"

"He- just left- not five minutes ago-"

"Sleep, now," commands the pale-faced stranger with the syringe, extending a gloved hand towards Teuchi. The last thing Teuchi saw was the black diamond on the stranger's forehead, rippling.


End file.
